


Every Molecule of Me

by irishavalon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a sappy romantic at heart, M/M, Missing Scenes, end of episode six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 03:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishavalon/pseuds/irishavalon
Summary: " “Angel!” He shouts urgently, pushing past people in his way as he finally catches sight of himself, back turned. Aziraphale turns at the sound of Crowley’s voice, and he’s wearing Crowley’s face, but the look of relief and joy in his eyes is purely Aziraphale.He turns, and Crowley sees the moment a thousand times, in a thousand memories, scattered and pulsing like the inside of a kaleidoscope: Aziraphale turning to him on the wall surrounding Eden, turning around to look at him in the Bastille as chains clink at the movement, in a dark church during the Blitz, outside an American army base wearing someone else’s face. None of these moments will ever be as blessed — and Crowley means that in the true, literal sense — as this one, and technically it’s not even Aziraphale’s body that’s turning to him. But it’s his eyes. He’s all right. He’s alive. He’s safe."After the Apocalypse that Wasn't, then after the trials.





	Every Molecule of Me

They’re sitting in the living room of Crowley’s flat, three hours after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. The wine bottle being passed back and forth between them is near the bottom, but neither seems particularly interested in using a miracle to refill it. 

“I don’t like it,” Crowley says, downing a gulp of the wine. He doesn’t mean the alcohol. “I really don’t.” He won’t tell Aziraphale it’s because he’s scared to let Aziraphale go down to Hell without Crowley there to watch out for him. Actually, he’s scared to let Aziraphale go down to Hell, period. 

But when Aziraphale turns to him to take the bottle back, he knows the angel knows. Aziraphale gives him a grim look and takes a swig before responding. “I know,” he says. “It’s a terrible idea. Completely insane. But that’s what it seems like Agnes Nutter meant. Do you trust me?”

“With every molecule of me,” Crowley says without hesitation. Aziraphale leans back in surprise. Crowley doesn’t break eye contact; for some reason he wants the angel to know he means it. Maybe because if this plan goes south, this will be the last time he sees his best friend. Again. No, best not to think of that. Crowley continues, “Of course I trust you, but I don’t trust Hell not to try something else after Holy Water. Something neither of us would survive.”

“You’re right, but what choice have we got? Either we go as ourselves and die by Plan A, or we switch places and hope there isn’t a Plan B.”

“All right,” Crowley agrees reluctantly at last. “Let’s do it. I don’t like it, but I can’t think of anything better.”

They lapse into silence, finishing the bottle between them and thinking. And Crowley, for his part, is definitively  _ not _ freaking out. Absolutely not. He imagines that he is completely fine, that the pulse he should not have is certainly not racing in his chest. He’s not sure how long they sit there without speaking, as he tries to scare his emotions into submission like his plants. Bit harder to do when they’re a part of him. 

It’s Aziraphale who breaks the silence. “For the record,” he says quickly, staring straight ahead when Crowley turns to face him. The angel blinks. “I trust you, too.”

_ Oh fuck _ . His nonexistent heart beats even faster. “Don’t get sentimental on me now, angel.” He grumbles. “We might be dead by this time tomorrow.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Well...er… you wouldn’t happen to have any books, would you?” Aziraphale asks, finally looking at him with a sheepish smile after changing the subject.

Crowley thinks about the copy of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray _ in the wardrobe in the bedroom upstairs; of  _ Dracula, _ shoved under the bed; of the dog-eared and threadbare  _ Romeo and Juliet _ kicked hastily under this very couch when Aziraphale had come by unexpectedly one day.

“Nope, sorry, angel. You know I don’t read much.” Crowley sets the empty bottle down on the side table and stretches bonelessly. “Well, I’m going to catch some sleep before we get caught on purpose tomorrow. ‘Night.”

“Good night.”

__________________________

“This is weird.” Crowley says with Aziraphale’s voice. He looks down at himself, sees Aziraphale’s clothes on his body, or rather feels Aziraphale’s  _ body _ on his…. This is  _ so bloody weird. _

“Yes, well,” Crowley’s voice says distractedly from the other side of the couch. Aziraphale’s picking at the tight black clothes on his body. “Whatever it takes, I suppose. The end justifies the means and all that, right, old chap?”

“Never,” Crowley says, tiredly, pinching the bridge of his (Aziraphale’s) nose, “say ‘old chap’ in my voice again.”

“Now what?” Aziraphale asks, as though Crowley hasn’t spoken. 

“I don’t know.” Crowley says. Thinks. “We probably shouldn’t both come from my flat. Probably just meet in St. James’s like we normally do, d’you think?”

“Sounds fine to me. Where should I go? My bookshop is… is….”

“You don’t have to go anywhere, angel. You’re me, remember?” Crowley cannot wait for this farce to end. It’s too bizarre, even for him. “Right. Wait here, then leave twenty minutes after I leave. St. James’s Park, by the pond, got it?” He stands up.

“Yes, Crowley, we’ve been meeting there for centuries; I know the place.” Aziraphale says shortly, and Crowley can tell he’s getting nervous.  _ That makes two of us _ . 

“Okay. See you later then.” Crowley says, barely resisting touching the angel. Before he vanishes, he catches sight of the side table, and a ragged second edition copy of  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , no longer out of sight under the furniture.  _ Heaven might not even need the Hellfire _ , he thinks wildly as he disappears,  _ he’s going to burn up from embarrassment right-the-fuck now. _

He reappears just outside Aziraphale’s bookshop, the passersby not noticing on their way to work. He gazes up at the building, completely standing, not a hint of smoke or fire damage anywhere. The corner of his mouth pulls up involuntarily.  _ The little bugger did it. _

When he walks in, the scent of books and dust and Aziraphale wash over him, and he can’t help smiling a little wider. He gazes around at the haphazard shelves, the collection of first editions on a yellowing lace tablecloth by the door, the desk by the window with Aziraphale’s cocoa mug still sitting on it. Above the desktop, on the attached shelf, Crowley sees a new collection of children’s books.  _ Little bugger _ , he thinks again, almost with a hint of fondness. 

It’s not until he’s leaving, twenty minutes later, that it occurs to him that the Bentley might be all right, as well. 

_____________________________

The ruse goes off without a hitch on Crowley’s end. He leaves the satisfying looks of terror on the archangels’ faces behind as he returns down to London. Serves them right for trying to get one over on a  _ principality,  _ for God’s— for Satan’s— for  _ fuck’s sake _ . Aziraphale is technically their superior, after all— not that the angel exercises his authority nearly often enough in Crowley’s opinion.

He touches down in St. James’s Park, in the spot the angels abducted him. As soon as his feet hit the pavement he’s moving; the heart he really needs to stop thinking he has leaps to his throat as he looks.  _ Where? Where is—? There _ .

“Angel!” He shouts urgently, pushing past people in his way as he finally catches sight of himself, back turned. Aziraphale turns at the sound of Crowley’s voice, and he’s wearing Crowley’s face, but the look of relief and joy in his eyes is purely Aziraphale. 

He turns, and Crowley sees the moment a thousand times, in a thousand memories, scattered and pulsing like the inside of a kaleidoscope: Aziraphale turning to him on the wall surrounding Eden, turning around to look at him in the Bastille as chains clink at the movement, in a dark church during the Blitz, outside an American army base wearing someone else’s face. None of these moments will ever be as blessed — and Crowley means that in the true, literal sense — as this one, and technically it’s not even Aziraphale’s body that’s turning to him. But it’s  _ his _ eyes. He’s all right. He’s alive. He’s safe.

“Crowley!” He calls back, and it’s Crowley’s voice that says it, but Crowley hears Aziraphale’s voice behind his own. And then he’s crashing into the angel and throwing his arms around him, and Aziraphale is hugging him back. “We did it,” Aziraphale is saying. “We did it. It’s over. We’re free.”

“Are you okay?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, I’m all right. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Crowley pulls away a little and grasps the angel’s — his — shoulders. He stares into his own snakelike eyes and doesn’t speak, searching desperately for something. Behind his own eyes, Aziraphale looks back, drinking him in as well. 

At last, Aziraphale murmurs, “I’m all right, Crowley.” 

Crowley exhales and gives the angel a small smile. “Me, too.” And something, a wrinkling by the eyes, eases as Aziraphale smiles back.

Crowley lets go at last. “Come on,” he says, slapping Aziraphale’s shoulder lightly. “Let’s go find somewhere to change back before we get stuck like this.”

“ _Can_ we get stuck like this?” Aziraphale asks as they walk, a hint of worry in his voice. 

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno. But I don’t want to find out.”

__________________________

It starts towards the end of lunch. The sense of it creeps up Crowley’s neck and he almost drops the glass in his hand. He looks around surreptitiously, checking for danger without alerting Aziraphale unless he decides it’s necessary. He resists tasting the air or sniffing with his human nose. 

When he turns to Aziraphale to ask him if he can sense it, he realizes it’s  _ coming _ from the angel. The anxiety, it’s coming off Aziraphale in  _ waves _ . But it’s his own, it’s not a response to something outside of him. And he’s grown abnormally quiet, but the food has already been eaten, so it’s not because of the reverential way he takes in the sight and scent before he takes a bite. It’s not the alcohol; he’s not drunk yet. And Crowley hasn’t spoken in a few minutes, so the angel isn’t listening. He’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as he gazes at the pianist, pretending to listen to the music.

After they pay, they wander back to the bookshop, and Crowley can still feel the anxiety radiating off Aziraphale. He doesn’t mention it; he knows the angel will tell him eventually. He just hopes Aziraphale’s not still thinking about the bloody  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . He hasn’t had time to come up with a lie yet.

Crowley stretches out on the couch as Aziraphale busies himself with pouring wine for them. He’s wondering idly if Aziraphale has enough books that he’ll buy that he just left the book at Crowley’s by accident, when Aziraphale finally speaks up.

“They tested it.”

“What’s that, angel?”

“They tested the holy water.” Aziraphale turns around, glasses of wine in his hands and the uncorked bottle nestled in his arm. “They threw a lesser demon into the tub without a backward glance and he--” He stops, catching a breath he doesn’t need as he hands Crowley his glass and sets the other glass and the bottle on the table. “I had no idea. I mean, I did have an idea. I know how the mechanics work. I’ve just never seen it. I was sent to get some to help a priest in Wales perform an exorcism in 1953, but then you showed up and with the Arrangement and all you went instead and--”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupts gently, “Get to the point.” If he lets the angel ramble much longer he’s going to have to deal with a celestial panic attack and he is  _ not _ equipped for that. 

“Yes. Right. The point is, I never saw Holy Water work in person. I knew what it did, but I didn’t really  _ know _ .”

“It’s over, Aziraphale.”

“No! It’s not! I gave you Holy Water half a century ago. I know you insisted you weren’t going to use it on yourself but I don’t want you to have it anymore. I can’t-- I won’t--”

“I used it.” Crowley interrupts. He sets his glass down and stands up. “Yesterday, when Hastur and Ligur came to get me. Didn’t they tell you that during the trial?” He rounds the table in long strides until he’s standing in front of the angel.

“Well, yes, they did, but--”

“I used it all. It’s all gone.” He gestures expansively, then adds before he can think better of it, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. When he speaks, it’s with a small smile and a forced, wet-sounding laugh. “Not to Alpha Centuri?”

Crowley smiles warmly. “Not unless you’re coming with me, angel.”

The angel laughs, and drops his head onto Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley stands, frozen, for a moment, before tentatively reaching up to place a hand in Aziraphale’s hair. He’d think he was drunk, if he couldn’t see his untouched glass of wine on the table.

“Hastur’s still alive,” Aziraphale says, not moving. 

“Yes,” Crowley replies, at a loss.

“I’m not getting you anymore Holy Water.”

Crowley sniffs a laugh at that. “That’s all right. I think after your little stunt he’ll stay away from me for awhile. And if not, I have a plant mister and a rumored immunity to Holy Water.”

He feels Aziraphale smile against his shoulder, and can’t quite stop himself from hiding his own smile in Aziraphale’s hair.

“Beelzebub almost shit herself.” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s grin widens. “Blimey, angel, you were in Hell for, what, an hour? What a mouth you’ve gotten!”

Aziraphale laughs and pulls his head up. Crowley drops his hand. “I blew hellfire at Gabriel.” Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale’s jaw drops, and then he laughs so hard he has to put his arms around Crowley’s neck to keep himself upright. Crowley laughs, too, at the sight of him. 

Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley’s and Crowley’s laughter dies away. Aziraphale looks at him and stops laughing, too, though he’s still smiling. The look on his face is gorgeous and Crowley hates it.  _ You go to fast for me, Crowley. _

“Hey,” Aziraphale says softly.

“Hey,” Crowley croaks back.

“We’re alive.” The angel says.

“Yes.” Crowley agrees, shocked he can still speak when his angel is  _ so damn close _ .

“The world didn’t end.”

“It didn’t.”

“We’re together.”

“We are.”

“I love you.”

“I-- _ What?! _ ” He rears back in shock, gaping at Aziraphale. “I-- You-- But--  _ What??” _

Aziraphale snickers and he won’t let go of Crowley. He won’t let go. He’s so  _ bloody  _ close, and Crowley is losing the plot. “Use your words, Crowley,” the angel teases, gazing at Crowley like he’s hung the bloody stars and it’s too much. It’s too damn much.

“What-- what about ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley’? What about ‘We’re not friends, I don’t even like you’?”

Aziraphale stops smiling immediately, and Crowley wants to kick himself. And then he’s thinking of Aziraphale’s face in Rome, thrilled to see him again despite the fact that he’s a demon. He’s thinking of the angel’s face in the Bastille, the look in his eyes when Crowley handed him a stack of books as they stood in the crumbling ruins of a church, a transparent projection of him in a dimly lit pub just yesterday. He sees the look Aziraphale gave him in the park this afternoon, when they came home to each other, alive and safe. It’s always been right there, plain and clear on Aziraphale’s face, whatever the angel’s words, whatever he said to keep Crowley at arm’s length so their head offices wouldn’t pull them apart. 

Aziraphale is looking at Crowley with pain and remorse, like he thinks that all he ever does is hurt Crowley, and Crowley feels terrible. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I was scared. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

Crowley sighs. “Angel, you don’t have to apologize. I know.”

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt you.” But he still hasn’t let Crowley go, so Crowley wraps his arms around the angel’s waist and pulls him in. 

“It’s all right,” he says. “This makes up for it.” He smiles. “Six thousand years of pining is nothing.”

“Six thousand!  _ Crowley--! _ ” Aziraphale shouts, and Crowley laughs. 

“Now we’re even. Any other surprises you’d like to dump on me tonight, angel?” he teases. 

Aziraphale grabs his face with both hands and kisses him hard. He  _ really _ needs to stop challenging this one. 

“How’s that?” Aziraphale asks, a little breathlessly, when they pull away. Crowley stares at him, lightheaded. 

“Fuck.” Crowley says. Aziraphale grins. “I love you, too, you conniving little bastard.” Aziraphale holds him and laughs against his neck. 


End file.
